


In Good Time

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Business Relationships, F/M, Gen, Lewis Carroll references, Life as a mafia don, New Traditions vs Old, The Iceberg Lounge (early stages), The balance of child-rearing and work, parent/child relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: All things in good time.





	In Good Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, referenced events, or the like affiliated with "Gotham" or the "Batman" franchise. This is my little playground of imagination. Thank you. :)

Her first word comes at seven months: a polite coo of audible sound during her evening bath. Clear rivets run, diluting bubbles in their downward paths, from her scalp to shoulders and onward. A little halo of gold clings damp to her crown, strands trickling in her eyes. She blinks, lifts a chubby hand to rub at them without success, then frowns and looks up.

“Mam _ma_.” The final syllable, emphasized with a keening whine and little feet splashing in bathwater. She rubs again at the offending wisps, but with the same lacking success as before.

Iris smiles. “Here, _ma belle_ ,” she murmurs; fingertips brush a smooth brow clear, then kiss gentle paths along a tiny nose and cheeks until giggles replace frustrated whines and hands happily grab for the black waves cascading loose from her mother’s crown.

Celeste is neatly wrapped in lush purple, blanketed against her mother’s breast, when the nursery door opens and closes in near silence. She feigns sleep well enough, but eyes move restless beneath closed lids, and she is immediately alert as soon as a second body joins mother and daughter in their cushioned seat. Blue eyes are bright in golden light, sleep banished for a moment. She reaches little fingers outward and captures a willing digit with ease.

“She has been waiting for her father’s return.” Iris chides, with audible annoyance. “You are lucky she cannot sleep without you.”

“Retract your claws, my love.” Victor smiles, thinly, into her hair. “You’re holding a fragile little treasure.”

The hour is becoming later and later, when Victor returns home these days. Iris thinks, perhaps, he is becoming restless with domesticity. Some nights, he comes home with a contemplative expression, tinged only slightly with frustration. The rest, he is streaked in muddy shades of red and has an unmistakable air of satisfaction about him.

“A husband should not leave his home so often,” the clanswomen say, over the obligatory weekly tea, “not when there is little child to look after.”

“Perhaps you should speak to your husband, She-Wolf.” Madelaine says, softer, when it is only the two of them left at day’s end. “He is an outsider. He may not understand our traditions. Or let him speak with Alexander. Even the Eagle did not leave the nest until our boys could walk, fend for themselves. Let him be educated.”

Iris says nothing. Not to the women, anyway.

“I sincerely doubt Victor requires any such education, my dear.” Edward says; the time they can sit together and speak of this or that is limited, between his job and hers, but they steal short hours as they can: Joe’s Diner, for turnovers and sweet tea; the precinct, her bringing bagged lunch and him supplying drinks in freshly-cleaned beakers; or at some ungodly evening hour in the manor kitchen over homemade milkshakes (she seems to have developed a sweet tooth, as of late, and Edward’s retained skills from his days working as soda jerk produce some very tasty results).

Tonight, it’s the latter: he’s halfway through a chocolate-banana shake, while she thoughtfully nurses her strawberry treat. Victor isn’t home. Celeste is nestled away in bed. Their shared space is illuminated by a couple candles, which offers a more intimate setting than perhaps is appropriate. But Iris enjoys the softer forms of light in place of harsh fluorescents, and the gold hues do play nicely off Edward’s face.

“I cannot help but ponder their words.” She admits, frowning. “Tradition is important to the clan.”

“True,” he dabs lightly at his mouth with a napkin, “but you’ve already broken it, have you not?”

Her eyebrow lifts in silent inquiry. His smile broadens. “ _You_ are the broken tradition, my dear. The clan has never been led by a she-wolf before, correct? Only the alpha male, those who came before you bearing the Volkov name. It stands to reason then, does it not, that they still don’t know what to expect of you. So they push antiquated traditions on your shoulders and expect you to carry them without pause. …It bears unfortunate reminiscence to your youth, hmm?”

Her eyes flash, dangerously, and fingers tighten around perspiring glass. Her nails are longer these days, and have not lost their strength even after childbirth. “Edward.” She says, in the low tone which clearly denotes the sensitivity being trod on by his words.

His shoulders shrug, and she notices, with only the thin white cotton of his work shirt to cover them, he is perhaps losing weight. “You know I’m right, Iris.”

Yes, she does. Yes, he is. She sighs, resigned, and returns to her milkshake for a moment. “What do you suggest I do?” she asks, after a time.

“Continue onward, without questioning yourself.” He doesn’t miss a beat, and she can only suspect he was simply begging her to prompt the question so he could deliver an answer which was likely weeks in the conception. “You’re already off to splendid start, really: I won’t feign fondness for Mr. Cobblepot, though there is something occasionally charming in his eccentricities, but you two seem to have found neutral ground—and look at what you’re creating, together! The lounge is coming along beautifully, DeLaine Towers has been neatly purged and the mending process is quite seamless, and the city is steadily mending itself in the aftermath of your…shall we say, less civilized days of interaction?”

Iris smirks, a bit, at his joke. The glass is empty and Edward gathers both hers and his to the sink for cleaning, waving off her quiet protests with a cheery comment about being the gentleman. Down the hall, her grandfather’s clock chimes three; upstairs, in the nursery, she hears Celeste whining: sleep interrupted by her father’s absence, once again.

She sighs.

Edward is as devoted a godfather as she could hope for, and he happily entertains Celeste no matter the hour. There is a room here wherein he leaves a small selection of clothes and personal belongings so as to avoid the long travel back to his loft. Besides, he’s been working extra shifts lately; he has earned a late morning rest.

Actually, he’s earned a full day of rest. Maybe even two…or three.

***

James shows up on her doorstep four days later. She expects his visits, once every two weeks, to spend time with his granddaughter. She isn’t expecting Detective Bullock to be in his shadow, with a scowl so prominent that she momentarily fears it might become permanent.

Then she reconsiders and decides it might actually be an improvement.

Edward is reading to Celeste in the family room (Detective Bullock rolls his eyes and grumbles about “puttin’ the kid to sleep with those damn tech manuals” before James gives him a look) but glances up and smiles in greeting when both men walk under the arched entrance. James collects Celeste in his arms, earning a shy smile after a few minutes of consideration, while Detective Bullock makes it his business to inform Iris just what he thinks of her granting favors to a select few at the precinct.

Her lips thin in a chilled line. “Perhaps I might be equally inclined to grant you the same favors, Detective Bullock, had you treated me with a modicum of decency when you had the chance.”

Across the room, James’ brow wrinkles a touch, disapproving frown teasing at his mouth’s corners, but Edward meets her eye and approval flashes in the shared connection.

In retrospect, she supposes this is the moment it officially begins: the adoption of long-established traditions, conceived anew under the reign of She-Wolf.

***

The officers on her payroll may be of small number, but they have been carefully screened with the same selection process by which she obtains employees at DeLaine Towers: there is neither a desire nor need for impulsive rats, scavenging one meal after another, quick to abandon all notions of loyalty at the first whiff of some higher cheese quality. These are men (and women; she isn’t gender-biased) who wear the uniform and have not yet entirely lost their desire to clean Gotham of her blackened grime coat and inner filth. These are the select few who still possess decent scruples, but have been employed long enough to wear a substantial coat of cynicism for which Iris has great use. A healthy cynic is the one who appreciates the grey areas of Gotham, and of life in Gotham. They don’t require monetary compensation as much as they do other favors from their silent benefactor.

For example, Officer Wilson Peterson is an only child with both parents rendered infirm by the passing of time, and proper housing for the elderly is virtually non-existent in Gotham. Frankly, Iris doesn’t think the city capable of maintaining such an establishment, not when Gotham’s insatiable hunger for suffering knows no boundaries and even less in the way of mercy. But, as is turns out, there is a charming little facility upstate, properly funded and staffed with licensed professionals of a genuinely caring demeanor. It is only a short while later the good couple are settled into their new living quarters, all expenses paid in advance.

(Butch and Gabriel provided a full account of the establishment, effectively posing as two brothers looking for a place to settle their dear ailing mother. Gabriel returns with a little slip of paper, tucked away in his pocket with a bashful smile. Butch later tells her one of the nurses took a shine to him.

Iris, quietly, approves. Oswald finds it terribly amusing, when the topic comes up during their weekly lunch, but doesn’t discourage the matter. When a petite brunette is seen, some weeks later, happily chatting Gabriel up in the park with her little hand cradled in his elbow crook, Iris just smiles and entreats Oswald to introduce the darling girl to his mother. One never knows when such a dutiful nurse might be a useful addition to the family.)

Officer Clarice Hall is another instance, though not necessarily one involving so much effort. She’s simply a single mother of two, abandoned years prior by a man who thought he could do better. Her maternal instinct does her great service with bereaved victims, and a no-nonsense demeanor equips her on the streets with an endless hoard of mouthy ruffians. (Edward once reported her tossing an uncouth little brat flat on his deserving backside, with barely an effort.) Working the unpredictable hours of a beat-cop doesn’t allow her the luxury of collecting children from school, not often, but the boy and his sister are quickly acquainted with Nikolai’s kindly expression and hulking form, waiting without fail in their mother’s absence, and the details simply aren’t addressed further.

(They’ve taken to calling him “Uncle Niki” to alleviate any concern from noisy adults. Madelaine blossoms with pride and eagerly anticipates the day this particular son makes her a grandmother. She happily implores Iris’ agreement, to say Nikolai will make a fine father, and the smiling nods given are genuine.)

Then there’s Officer Calvin Steers.

James has taken quite a shine to this one: he is extraordinarily young, without a college diploma, but the department was short-staffed and desperate (a sadly common occurrence) and willing to overlook certain technicalities. Iris isn’t quite sure what to think of him; youth, after all, so often breeds arrogance, impulsivity, and many similar sins. But she also knows her father is a man of principle, and doesn’t take kindly to just anyone.

She decides to time her next precinct visit accordingly: there’s been a shooting (some trivial dispute among youth gangs ending in violence) and she glides into Edward’s office with lunch, half an hour before Officer Steers comes through the door with evidence bag in hand.

“Mr. Nygma, I revisited the scene this morning and found a slug—oh!” he looks endearingly abashed and ducks his head in polite greeting, “Ma’am. Sorry, Mr. Nygma, I didn’t know you were entertaining.”

Iris laughs. “You were right, Edward,” she flashes a smile and enjoys the blush creeping into the boy’s ears, “he is so very polite.”

Edward grins and sweeps a hand to emphasize introductions. “Officer Steers, this is Iris DeLaine—Jim Gordon’s daughter. She used to work with me in the morgue.”

“Oh…” she bites back amusement, watching the way his doe-like brown eyes run over her heels and artfully-designed Victorian attire, all the while doubtlessly trying to imagine her in a white lab coat over decaying corpses, “Um—pleased to meet you, Miss DeLaine. I’ll…I’ll just—”

“Why don’t you join us?” Edward prompts, perfectly reading the look in Iris’ eyes. “Iris always brings more than needed.”

“Someone has to keep you from wasting away.” She teases with good humor. Officer Steers shyly fiddles with his hat, and she wonders if he might be uncomfortable with the intimacy of good friends. Perhaps he has none of his own.

“I-I really should get back to work…” he mumbles, but his eyes are creeping towards the antipasto salad like a child does the cookie jar before dinner.

“Come now, Officer Steers,” she bestows her sweetest smile and savors the rapid pink flush over lightly-freckled cheeks, “I promise, I do not bite.”

(Victor always did say that smile could get the devil himself down on one knee, kissing her feet.)

“I really enjoy working with your father, Miss DeLaine,” the dear boy says, twenty minutes later, between bites which imply he hasn’t eaten a proper meal all week, “He’s just the kind of mentor I was hoping for when I joined the department.”

“I am so glad to hear that,” she says, not falsely, “Papa does speak so highly of you. Tell me: do you have ambitions to ascend the ranks?”

He nods, with great enthusiasm. “Well, I’d definitely like to be Detective Steers, one day…but…” the eagerness fades almost as quickly as it came, and her brow creases slightly in understanding.

“But you require a college education to even attempt the test.” He nods, subdued in the roast beef, and she leans a bit closer. “May I ask why you never pursued higher education, Officer Steers?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to…” he sighs; he looks so like a shy schoolboy, “My dad’s raised me alone, after the accident…” he trails, and she doesn’t press for what is obvious, “I mean, we always had food on the table and all, but money isn’t big for a blue-collar worker and I was lucky to get through high school. I didn’t want to push it. Besides, I don’t mind working the streets. Your dad’s teaching me everything I need to know.”

His humility is rather attractive, but all rarities always are.

***

Victor, smirking, remarks on her “bleeding heart”. She tells him such is cute talk, for a man who spends every waking moment inside the manor lavishing attention on a cooing infant.

She has Edward retrieve the desired information, and sends Butch to personally deposit the item at Officer Steers’ apartment. It takes all of two days before the young man shows up on her doorstep and manages to embarrass himself by rushing too quickly through the hall and walking face-first into the study door.

(Selina smirks, shamelessly, until Iris gives her a look. Even then, the amusement peeks out at the corners of pale pink lips.)

Butch helps Officer Steers into a seat and fetches a bit of ice for his bruised nose. Iris momentarily thinks to offer him some refreshment, then decides against it. He probably isn’t old enough to drink.

“With all respect, Ma’am,” he says, after a long pause, “I…I know who you are. That is—I know your reputation, and…I-I appreciate the gesture, but my daddy didn’t raise me to accept handouts.”

Slim eyebrows arch high. “Handouts? Hardly, Officer Steers.” She scoffs; were the boy’s ignorance not so apparent, she might be insulted. Shakta chooses that precise moment to wake up from her late-afternoon nap, stretch and yawn (his eyes grow wide at the unbridled view of fully-developed canines and the equally sharp teeth adorning them on all sides), then trot out the door and move on to destinations suspected but not known.

“I do not offer handouts, dear boy.” She continues, ignoring the way he’s still staring, transfixed, at the doorway. “It is apparent, now, you have been informed of the favors I grant some of your colleagues—may I correctly assume Detective Bullock has supplied you with this information?” he nods, swallowing hard, and she sighs. “A pity. Perhaps if you had been educated by Edward, or even Papa, you would understand the details of these particular arrangements.”

“…Ma’am?” he looks genuinely confused, which suits her just fine. Better a blank slate of bewilderment than someone so easily manipulated into steadfast beliefs.

Her fingers lace beneath her chin, elbows at sharp angles atop the desk. “I will speak to you honestly, Officer Steers: I have no interest in extortion or bribery or other forms of manipulation. My birth parents were shameless patrons of all the aforementioned, and I have no taste for such appalling behaviors. I went through a great deal of trouble to employ a handful of your colleagues (I shall keep their anonymity, for reasons I am sure you understand), and while they number few, they are unwavering in their loyalty. Their dedication does not stem from threats of personal violence or anything of the like, but a simple contract established between us: I supply that which they need most in this world, as it rests within my power, and they in turn keep me wholly apprised of the precinct comings and goings.”

“I-I…I’ve always heard the mafia—” then he snaps his jaw shut, tight, and ducks his head. His youth is prominently on display, but motherhood must be softening her edges because she is less annoyed and more amused with such behavior.

“What you have heard of the mafia is true—in generations passed.” To her left, Selina slinks on the empty space of her bookshelf and perches with her feline flexibility. “But traditions which remain stagnant are those inevitably doomed. I am the first woman to lead my clan, and with such a change comes a mandatory upheaval in how things will and will not be conducted. The handout, as you called it, is a loan, no different than one you would receive from the bank. Once you have completed your education, successfully, and have served your time accordingly to earn the rank of Detective, I will expect a return on my investment. Do you understand?”

He nods. “Then do you wish to still refund my offer?”

“No, Ma’am.” He murmurs, finally lifting his head to meet her eye. “I…I’m very grateful for this opportunity. And for your generosity.”

She smiles. “You are most welcome.”

***

Two weeks later, James informs her of Officer Steers’ unexpected enrollment at Gotham State. He wastes no time fishing with questions. She blinks and tells him to extend her congratulations, for such noble intentions and the furthering of his career goals. James scowls at her but drops it with relative grace.

“Your compassion is blossoming into quite the lavish little flower.” Victor says, the next night, while Iris finishes some paperwork (Shakta is tending to her _petite soeur_ , keeping a sharp eye while Celeste nuzzles deep into her fur, little hands curling around coarse strands, and drifts back to sleep.) “Soon, it may become infectious.”

“I eagerly await the day your black heart is thawed and becomes a fertile breeding ground of joy, delight, and goodwill toward mankind.” She answers, dryly amused. “It shall be such a pleasant change of pace from your insatiable bloodlust.”

Long fingers catch her chin and tilt attention away from business matters to the smoldering embers in blue depths. “I happen to be insatiable in other areas, my love.”

“Yes,” she smiles as his hand draws her closer to waiting lips, “I know.”

The next morning, her neck is peppered with bite marks and dark red bruises, and his skin is blurred red with an array of scratches. She gets one leg outside the covers before two arms catch and drag her back into bed. The obligatory protests in the name of productivity go unheeded, and her squirming only encourages him. In her ear, he purrs an…inspiring description of how they might spend the next hour or so, before Celeste wakes for breakfast.

“You _are_ insatiable.” She grumbles, only mildly annoyed, and tosses him a look while Celeste has her fill. He leans down and pecks her cheek. The smirk scrapes skin like a papercut.

“A dutiful husband never leaves his wife wanting for affection.” Victor croons. “It’s all for tradition, after all.”

She rolls her eyes. The only traditions Victor Zsasz upholds are the ones he can rework to his benefit.

***

“Come here, darling girl,” Oswald beams, sweeping Celeste neatly in his arms without care for the proximity of a teething babe’s mouth to his three-piece suit, “Oh, my, what’s this? Two teeth, already, and more on the way! I do hope you’re behaving yourself and not keeping your dear mother awake at night.”

Iris delivers a well-earned glare. Celeste isn’t exactly delayed in earning her baby teeth, but Iris doesn’t remember such dramatics with the first tooth. Since then, it has been long late nights of shrieking and wailing quite uncharacteristic of her daughter’s normally docile behavior.

The lounge is indeed coming along nicely: the exterior has been completed for weeks, but Oswald is a man of details and no expense is spared for the interior design. He gives her the grand tour of all five stories (halfway through, she takes Celeste back with a thinly-veiled smirk: with the teething season comes the habit of pulling anything and everything in her mouth, and after she tries to bite Oswald’s nose twice, removal from temptation becomes necessary) peppered with commentary about certain items being delayed. Namely, the special-ordered carpeting and (much to her chagrin) card tables for the gambling section.

(They fought for almost two months, long before today, over opening the lounge as a place for dimwitted fools to throw away their money and dig themselves a hole of debt from which they will never escape. Oswald accused her of being too emotional on the matter. He argued economics. She disagrees, wholeheartedly, and made it clear—in writing—she would not support this aspect of the lounge. She didn’t expect it to be much of a threat, not when even she knows this will bring in disgusting prosperity to the books, but she won’t pretend to be anything other than annoyed at his refusal to have a menial scrape of better judgment for people and their reckless addictions.)

“—But enough about all this, my dear.” He settles behind his desk, a sprawling length of dark wood. “It seems DeLaine Towers is making a suitable comeback, no?”

“We have a long way to go,” Celeste has cried herself to sleep, a fate Iris never wished for her child no matter the circumstances, but there is nothing to be done for it, “but it is a step in the right direction.”

“You’re looking to give Wayne Enterprises a run for their money, I hear.” He looks quite satisfied with this little detail. “Such extensive research in unexplored territory—namely, pressing the current bounds of Neuroscience.”

Her lips thin into a cool smile. “I place complete faith in Mr. Tetch. His passion for the study is unparalleled.”

“Only Mr. Tetch?” Oswald has not yet had the pleasure of meeting her favored employee in person, but he’s at least courteous enough to pretend otherwise when mentioning the man in polite conversation, “Don’t you have others working in the department?”

“Mr. Tetch is a very private man.” No one needs to know the dear man is an introvert’s introvert. “I respect his wishes to work alone.”

She has no need to explain further. Frankly, she expects it will only be a matter of time before Jervis Tetch appreciates his need for a secretary. His is a brilliant mind, rivaled only by Edward’s intellect, but she has caught glimpses of the man’s work area and quietly walked away without a bit of commentary on the complete disarray of his (for want of a better word) pack-rat style. A secretary, she is sure, might assist him with a legitimate filing system beyond his favored “I know it’s around here somewhere”.

But all things in good time. If the matter becomes overbearing, she will press a little harder. For now, it is her policy to stay out of employee’s personal affairs unless they bring something to her attention.

***

Five days later, Jervis Tetch knocks on her office door. He doesn’t announce himself (at least not audibly) but no other employee carries him or herself with such mild mannerisms that their request for entry is a timid two taps on the door frame.

“Come in.” Iris is a firm believer in stimulating her child’s mind, even at only seven months, so Celeste frequently joins her mother during those days wherein a physical presence at DeLaine Towers is mandatory for its CEO. During her active hours, Celeste works her developing muscles and wriggles her way into a crawl along the carpet. Nikolai fashioned her a little place to sleep, for naps, which Madelaine furnished with plush covers.

(Frankly, Celeste could sleep on the same carpet floors she explores, so content and unbothered by strange circumstances as she is, so long as her favored toy is within arm’s reach: a stuffed tiger, her very first Christmas gift from Victor, bearing identical features to the tiger waiting faithfully within the halls of Falcone Manor.)

“I…I do hope I’m not disturbing you, Ma’am.” He speaks so polite, British tongue cultured and refined, but she does wish he wouldn’t behave so fearfully. His is a brilliant mind, worthy of respect, but for all the wonder lying within that extraordinary mind, he has all the confidence of a field mouse.

“Never.” She flashes a warm smile, as inviting as she can possibly make it, and gestures to a chair. He fusses with his necktie, twice, then slowly lowers himself onto the cushion. His mannerisms prompt her to think of the Dormouse, from his beloved Carroll, and tuck a smile away in the corner of red lips. “What can I do for you, Jervis?”

He shuffles, even while seated. The first-name-basis notion is obviously foreign to him; never mind she has established it since his first day on the job, he still flushes rose-pink and nibbles his bottom lip at the sound of his name on her tongue.

She’ll break him of the habit soon enough. Patience is her virtue, after all.

“Well, you see,” he stares determinedly at his shoe tips; eye contact is another thing they need to address, “I…I’ve been reconsidering…that is to say, with the-the new funds you so g-graciously provided my work—the research, that is—I believe…well,” Celeste distracts, for a moment, while she squirms over one of his shoes, rather like a little caterpillar, and Iris enjoys the fond smile passing over his anxious features before it fades once more, “Gracious—listen to me babbling on. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and all…”

(He has quite the propensity for weaving Lewis Carroll into everyday conversation. She has overheard tidbits of gossip here and there—and what she doesn’t personally hear, Butch is happy to inform her of every unkind word he hears in her stead—mocking Jervis for such behavior. She despises such ignorance, but has resigned herself to accepting these unfortunate circumstances. Far too many people, even those she has carefully screened for employment, are not properly cultured to recognize a man of superior breeding such as Mr. Tetch.)

He clears his throat and sits upright, hands tight in the lap and eyes finally making contact. “I’ve reconsidered the topic of our conversation some weeks past, Ma’am, and believe you are right. The time has come, as the Walrus said, to talk of many things. Among them, obtaining myself a secretary.”

All things in good time.


End file.
